


Renege

by wellperhaps



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, I guess!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16641696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellperhaps/pseuds/wellperhaps
Summary: Bull needs a new strategy.





	Renege

It’s dark in Bull’s room, but he can still make out the cards. They’re playing in silence, both concentrating on their cards. Bull knows this game, and he has a solid tactic that serves him well, barring a stroke of bad luck. Dorian’s not a bad player either, but he’s impulsive, risking too much. Sometimes it works in his advantage. Bull chooses a card. It causes him to take a small hit to spare one of his better cards. He can afford it.

“Tell me,” Dorian says suddenly, quietly.

“What?”

“Tell me to stay.”

Bull takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to have this conversation again.

“Don’t do this, Dorian.”

“Tell me to stay and I will. I’ll wake up in your bed every morning.”

Yes, but how long until you’d hate me for it, Bull thinks, but doesn’t say it. This is an old conversation. It won’t change anything. Dorian has made his choice, and he’s due for Tevinter as soon as the weather clears. Maybe in two weeks, possibly three. They haven’t spoken of it lately. Better to play cards, drink bad wine, fuck on Bull’s lumpy mattress. Simple, if you ignore all the parts that aren’t.

Bull knows that returning to Tevinter scares Dorian. No wonder. That damned place has never been, will never be, kind to him. Bull should have noticed Dorian’s quiet mood tonight. Bull should have taken him to bed, so he would have had something else to think about. Too late now. Now Bull only has his words to reassure him, but that’s alright. He’s done it before.

“It’s going to be fine, Dorian. The Inquisition will back you up all the way. You’ll make a difference there.”

Dorian’s jaw tenses. His smell changes. Lyrium, and something that Bull only knows as anger.

“Fuck you. You will stop humoring me, placating me like you would a child. You will not tell me what is best for me. If you do not want me, be honest about it, at least,” he says, quietly, his teeth gritted.

Bull has seen Dorian angry before, but not like this. This is not battle rage aimed at an enemy, volatile and brilliant. This is anger that gnaws, corrodes. Acidic. Bull feels that the game has suddenly changed and that the stakes are now very high. He doesn’t know the rules. Treading carefully is his best bet.

“This is not about what I want. You’ve chosen to go. You’ll do great things. You’ll make life better for your people. I respect that.”

The acidic smell intensifies. The cards Dorian is holding start to wrinkle. A corner of one card falls out onto the table, blackened and crumbling.

“I suppose it is just my luck, to escape my duties for a fleeting chance at personal happiness, just to find a man who respects the former more than the latter.”

Dorian places the cards on the table, carefully. They are ruined, corroded by Dorian’s touch. Bull stares. He has lost the thread of this conversation. Dorian stands, walks out into the night without saying anything more.

*

Next evening, Bull seeks him out. He still doesn’t know what Dorian wants him to say, doesn’t know how to help. He thinks maybe he can figure it out. He knows he can’t just leave it. And why not? Well, that’s one of the things he’s trying to ignore.

Bull knocks on Dorian’s door. He breathes out in relief when the door opens. He steps into the room and the familiar smell of incense and the warm light of the oil lamps surrounds him. Dorian closes the door. They are standing very close to one another, but Dorian is not looking at him.

“I fucked something up yesterday,” Bull tries. “What was it that I should have said?”

Dorian inhales, the sound almost a hiss.

“Vishante kaffas. One last time. I want you to tell me what you want, for yourself. Not what you think would be best for me, not what you think you should want. If you cannot do that, just walk out now or I swear I’ll…” Dorian turns away abruptly.

Bull looks at the strands of hair curling at his nape. Dorian will find an Orlesian barber before he leaves, someone expensive to tame those soft curls with blades and oils. Rebuild himself into someone who can face Minrathous.

“I want…” Bull tries, finds that the words stick to his throat. He reaches out instead, presses his fingertips to Dorian’s neck, caresses the dark strands. Thinks about the cards curling and crumbling under Dorian’s displeasure.

“I don’t want you to stay if it’s only for me,” he manages. “But I think… you could be so many things. Any cause you take on would be the better for it. I just fucking wish you didn’t want to be the one thing I can’t be a part of. A reformer in that damn pit of vipers.”

Dorian doesn’t turn around. His shoulders are tense, but Bull can’t bear to take his hand away.

“And if I were to find some other avenue to pursue, here in the South perhaps,” Dorian says, strained and quiet, “would we keep on as we have? Fucking and drinking and arguing about politics?”

“Yeah. If that’s what you… no, sorry. I would want that.”

Bull knows it’s not good enough. But the idea lives in him now and he can’t escape it. Dorian, asleep in a shared bed, with nowhere else to be. Dorian, arguing with the tailor about the lining of his new winter coat, designed to last for years to come. Dorian, making a home.

“Wait,” Bull says because he knows he’s said it wrong and he’s suddenly very afraid that something will crumble before he has a chance to get it right. Dorian remains quiet. Bull is grateful for that.

“I want all that, but that’s not everything. I want to see where this goes. I want to build something with you. If you go, I’ll… fuck. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Dorian turns then, dodges the searching look Bull gives him, and hides his face into Bull’s shoulder instead. Bull wraps his arms around him. Too tight. You can’t hold onto people too tightly, they’ll get scared and annoyed and they’ll struggle to get away. People need their freedom, especially here in the South. Especially Dorian, smothered and held back for so long by every damn oppressive tradition.

But Bull holds him. He can’t let go, he won’t.

“Please stay,” he says, voice hoarse and shaking. “We’ll figure something out. Just stay.”  
Dorian burrows closer, wraps his arms around Bull the best he can. The lamps in the room glow a little brighter.

“Thank you,” Dorian whispers. Lets himself be held.


End file.
